


What He Knows

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 01:31:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A social scientist taunts his sentinel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What He Knows

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcome at lazuli2@postmark.net 

## What He Knows

by Cinel Durant

Author's disclaimer: These characters belong to PetFly Productions and UPN. No profit, just a little honest adoration.

* * *

What He Knows  
by Cinel Durant 

"You just did it to torment me." The words are full of challenge, as is my tone, but there is only heat in my eyes. I can feel it like I feel the lust. I'm more frustrated than annoyed, not really angry at all. 

"Damn right I did." Blair responds without hesitation, without any hedge at all. Then the wicked little thing stops, turns back, and asks, "Did what exactly?" No innocence there either. Nope, just deliberate danger and sensual mischief. 

"Oh no you don't, Chief, don't try to pull that on me." 

Blair crosses his arms and widens his stance. He's got his weight shifted onto one hip just enough, narrowly avoiding throwing down the gauntlet with his body position alone. 

"You knew that I'd know, and that knowing would mess with my head all day. That every time I looked at you I'd be thinking about it. Looking, staring, measuring the way the fabric fits." I left the 'against you' unsaid. "And hearing the slide of skin against cloth." 

"But there's always skin against cloth." 

"Yeah, but you knew I'd know the difference." 

"You know what Jim? You're right, I just did it to torment you. And to remind you." He lowers his voice to some octave he's never used outside of my bed before, let alone here where we work. "It's a promise." 

"Promise," I echo hoarsely. He's starting to get to me. One of us had better start caring about where we are, and soon. 

"A promise for later, that I'll be all yours." 

And he walks away. He has the _nerve_ to walk away. He moves those feet, swinging his hips in that sinfully casual way of his, and he just saunters out of my reach. Probably a good thing, since he's wearing a henley that I love with his eyes, and those hiking boots that make him look like he's ready for business, and relaxed jeans that aren't all that relaxed. 

But he isn't wearing a damn thing under them. 

He knows I can smell everything about him, _see_ everything about him. And he knows that I'll follow him across the room with every sense I have for the few hours that are left in the day -- as much as I can and still get my work done, anyway. He knows I'll start counting the minutes soon, and that I'm going to make him pay for this when we get home. He's going to love that especially, being made to pay, because he _also_ knows that I already can't get enough of him, and this craving I'm drowning in right now is just icing on an already delicious social scientist cake. 

I don't know what will happen: if he'll strip himself or if I'll undress him; if he'll wind up on top or I'll pin him against the wall; if mouths will be involved or just hands and other openings. Maybe he'll surprise me and make me beg, just this once. 

But here's what I do know. Darwin he might be, but never underestimate an Army ranger. 

I'm going to have him, over and over again. Inside, outside, side by side. And it will be the sweetest punishment he's ever known, if it's punishment at all. Because my guide, my partner, my roommate, my lover knows, yes, he _knows_ , how difficult it is for me -- as he moves in and out of my line of sight or brushes past -- to _not_ get powerfully aroused, knowing he's left one particular piece of clothing behind. 

He knows. And he did it anyway. 

Hours of paperwork later and I'm sorely tempted, yes, sorely is definitely the right word, to just let my body have its way. Even if someone noticed, no one would dare say anything. Unlike Mr. Never-met-a-tribe-he-couldn't-name over there, however, I went the baggy route this morning: loose khakis, long shirt, oversized sweater. So I'm safe, from some things anyway. But not from the wanting. 

And I know exactly what I want: all 5-foot-whatever of it, with the luscious hair and the sea-clear eyes, the sassy backend and the bottomless heart. _That's_ what I want. That's what I _have_. Correction, that's what I'm _gonna_ have. Just as soon as I put that last file away, engineer our graceful exit out of this building, get us settled in the truck, and ask the obligatory do-we-need-anything-at-home-chief question. 

Because once we're in, we'll be in for the night. 

"Jim?" 

"What? You say something Chief?" 

"Yeah, Jim. I said I'm ready to go home whenever you are." 

He's just as innocent as a newborn when he says that, playing it cool for the others that might hear us. It seems this file in my hands just became the last file, so I get up and put it away and answer him. 

"Yep, that's a wrap, Chief. Dinner?" 

"On you, man." 

"Take out?" I ask, knowing there is no way in hell I'm going to let anyone else near my loft tonight, not even a delivery guy. 

"Let's keep it simple," he counters. "There's leftover chili in the freezer." 

Smart man. 

"You got it, Chief." I gather him along with a sweep of my arm, and we're moving towards the elevator as I contemplate the logistics. We walk to the truck like it's any other night, and joke around with the patrolman on his way in. There's always someone in the garage; it's the nature of police garages - they're never empty. We slide in, strap in, and start moving down the road, where, by unspoken agreement, I skip the store remark because we've already settled the dinner issue. I drive just fast enough to make a few of the yellow lights I would normally stop for, and Blair doesn't comment this time on how he thinks that's reckless of me. 

We get home, and when the door closes we _are_ home, a place that's part him, part me, all us. But all that suppressed want and desire and lust spills out in the strangest way. Because after thinking about nothing _but_ all day, I don't press him against anything. The truth is, not one shred of clothing is ripped or harmed in the making of this interlude; no furniture is tortured, no chairs are overturned. 

Because he steps through the door and tosses his coat aside and turns back to me, and in that instant, all I see is love. Not passion, not lust, not wantonness, though they're all there. 

No, all I see is love. 

I melt against him like I've never seen that look before, even though I see it all the time, every time. All the while I'm thanking God for promises as I slide this incredible man out of his clothes and further under my skin. 

That's exactly the way it happens. 

He knew it would end this way all along. 

~End~  
4;05/07/00 


End file.
